


thankful

by pearlilly



Series: seasons [3]
Category: Dynasty (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F, extremely late thanksgiving, in which fallon and kirby are both idiots, this took forever and it's not great but i can't look at it anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:53:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21784774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearlilly/pseuds/pearlilly
Summary: in which Fallon and Kirby celebrate Thanksgiving.
Relationships: Kirby Anders/Fallon Carrington
Series: seasons [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1512317
Comments: 10
Kudos: 24





	thankful

When Kirby woke up on the day before Thanksgiving, it wasn’t because her alarm had gone off. She rarely set one, anyway, able to go about her days relatively freely due to her lack of responsibilities - though she _had_ been accompanying Fallon on more than the occasional business venture as of late - and being the eve of a holiday, she’d planned to sleep in before joining Fallon for their morning coffee and croissants in the sunroom. 

That particular plan was foiled, however, when she was rudely awakened at 11am by the smell of smoke. 

The acrid scent curled through the air towards her, assaulting her senses and immediately bringing her out of any lingering drowsiness. Growing up in a country that was plagued by fire, Kirby was uncomfortably acquainted with it; the unmistakable smell triggered her fight or flight instinct. 

She jumped out of bed and dashed into the hall, stopping at one of the crystal-paned fire extinguisher cases that had been installed after the previous year’s manor fire and Fallon’s unexpected gas leak. She fumbled for the little silver hammer that was meant to break the glass, but, unable to get a grip on it, gave up and slammed the point of her elbow into the pane instead. The panes cracked, then shattered. 

Armed with the extinguisher, Kirby followed the smoke down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the smoke detector was beeping angrily. Fallon stood in front of the oven, shouting colorful curses and trying to use a Kate Spade oven mitt to beat back what were clearly flames. 

“Fallon!” Kirby cried, rushing around the large island to her side. What had once been some sort of pastry sat ablaze in front of her, the flames licking at her oven mitt and jumping onto the long sleeve of her shirt. 

Fallon was too flustered to respond, continuing to try to smother the fire, but Kirby had already pulled the pin out of the fire extinguisher and squeezed. A few sweeping movements later and the fire was out, leaving the girls with nothing but a sodden, smoldering pile of sludge. 

“Jesus, Fallon, haven’t we had enough fires for one year?” Kirby asked. Breathless, she set the extinguisher down on the granite countertop with a _clang_ and dusted herself off. 

Fallon turned to face her. Her hair was done in a French twist that was impressively ornate to be so early in the day. The long sleeved shirt she was wearing matched the black in her gingham skirt, and she had on a literal string of pearls to complete the ensemble. She looked like some kind of housewife, especially compared to Kirby’s ragged pajamas, but no matter how oddly appealing she might look, it didn’t distract Kirby from noticing that her eyes were still wide and fearful from what had just happened. 

“I could’ve handled it,” she insisted, brushing past Kirby to the sink. She pulled up her slightly singed sleeve, running cold water over the burn that marked her wrist. “You didn’t need to go all fire brigade on me.”

Kirby picked up the scorched oven mitt and waved it at her. “Because _this_ is such an effective way to put out a fire.”

Fallon rolled her eyes, turning off the water. “Fine. Thank you.” She motioned to Kirby. “What happened to your arm?”

Confused, Kirby looked down and rotated her arm. For the first time, she noticed blood trickling down her elbow and forearm, clearly cut from where she’d broken the glass. With all the adrenaline that had been coursing through her, she hadn’t even felt it. 

“Oh, I-- I needed to get the fire extinguisher out.”

“The hammer too good for you?”

“I smelled _smoke,”_ Kirby snapped. “This house tries to catch on fire every five minutes and the last time it did, someone _died._ Forgive me for not wanting the next someone to be you.”

Even at the unexpected mention of Cristal, Fallon didn’t well up - she rarely did - but her eyes did noticeably soften with Kirby’s explanation, and she reached out to grab the redhead’s hand. 

“Come on, let’s go get ourselves cleaned up.”

Keeping hold of Kirby’s hand, Fallon led her out of the kitchen and a few meters down the hallway to where a secondary butler’s pantry was tucked away in a small alcove. It was crammed full of necessities that Anders and the rest of the staff didn’t use that often. Fallon rummaged in one of the cabinets for a moment, finally emerging with a dusty first aid kit. 

“Hop up,” she instructed, patting the counter beside her. “I’ll do you and then you do me.” 

Kirby smirked, sidling over to her and boosting herself up onto the counter. “Shouldn’t you at least buy me dinner first?”

Kirby was surprised to see her cheeks redden in a blush. “Don’t be gross,” Fallon snapped, popping open the clasps on the kit and starting to root through it. She surfaced with an alcohol swab and some bandages and began cleaning Kirby’s cuts a bit more aggressively than the redhead thought was strictly necessary.

“That _stings,”_ Kirby whined. 

Fallon rolled her eyes. “Oh no. Are you okay.” She deadpanned, but she softened her approach and bent down to blow on the cuts anyway. 

“That’s better.”

Fallon allowed her a small smile and began taping bandages over Kirby’s elbow. When she reached the smaller scratches on her forearm, she took Kirby’s hand to hold her steady while she cleaned them. Kirby could feel unexpected goosebumps racing across her skin from the contact and prayed that Fallon didn’t notice them.

She cleared her throat, deciding to make small talk to try to ease the sudden, odd tension that had settled between them. “So, what exactly _were_ you trying to do when you nearly blew up the oven?”

“I didn’t nearly blow up the oven,” Fallon muttered defensively. She finished with Kirby’s scratches, letting go of her hand and motioning for her to get down. Kirby found herself having to make a concerted effort not to pout. 

“Okay.” Kirby sifted through the first aid kit as Fallon took her place on the counter. She pulled some gauze out of its depths and started to carefully roll up Fallon’s sleeve. “So, again, what _were_ you doing?”

Fallon blushed again, harder this time, and muttered something under her breath.

Kirby had been loosely wrapping gauze around Fallon’s burned wrist, but paused to look up at her. “What was that?”

“I said, I was… making a pie. For you.”

“For _me?”_ Kirby looked at her carefully, surprised by the response. Fallon rarely did anything that wasn’t at least a little bit self-serving, and this was no exception. “Why?”

“Well, it’s-- it’s your first Thanksgiving in a long time, and your dad still hasn’t come back, and I heard Martha and Rebecca talking about the desserts they have planned for tomorrow and they’re all weird fruity things that Cristal picked and they’re all swimming in strawberries, which you’re allergic to. So I got Culhane to email me his mom’s sweet potato pie recipe. I just wanted you to have something you could eat, you know. Something special. Something you like. It’s kind of your house, too.”

Kirby steeled herself for some kind of sarcastic crack about her overstaying her welcome, but it never came. Fallon seemed to realize that she’d been rambling, because she flushed pink again and fell silent, staring steadily at the stocked shelves across from her. 

Kirby quietly wound the length of gauze around Fallon’s wrist again. She _was_ allergic to strawberries, that was certainly true, but the last time Fallon had seen her with hives because of that had to have been at least sixteen years ago. It seemed that Fallon cared more about her; _remembered_ much more about her than she realized - the extra croissants on the tray at breakfast, the Sweet Tarts on Halloween, and now this. She’d felt an odd kind of pull towards her since she’d moved back in, and she was starting to realize, somewhat unexpectedly, that her fondness for Fallon might not be completely one-sided.

“That was… incredibly thoughtful, Fallon. Thank you.”

“...I didn’t even get it done, though. The stupid thing burst into flames.”

“It was the thought that counts,” Kirby said gently. She taped Fallon’s gauze into place, then tossed the supplies back in the kit and snapped it closed. 

“It literally isn’t,” Fallon insisted. “I’ve never understood that expression. The thought doesn’t mean anything when it got you all sliced up and... _pieless_.”

“We can always try again. Together.”

* * *

It only took the girls about forty-five minutes to dispose of the ruined pie and scrape the remaining charred pieces out of the oven. Fallon had complained about getting dirty at first, but relented when Kirby pointed out that she was already soiled from the fire extinguisher. The kitchen sat clean and ready for their next try, a Tiffany candle burning cheerfully on the counter in an attempt to remove the scorched smell from the air.

“You’re _sure_ you know what you’re doing?” Fallon asked, eyeing Kirby somewhat warily as she chopped sweet potatoes and added them to a pot. 

Kirby snorted. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“I didn’t say _that_ ,” she pouted. She’d been relegated to spoon duty, somewhat grumpily stirring the pot as Kirby took over the main preparations. 

“You didn’t have to. Stir.”

“My wrist is burned to a crisp and you’re making me stir.”

Kirby rolled her eyes. “It isn’t burned to a crisp, and I thought you’d want to help. You can always go pout in the living room, if you prefer.” She finished chopping sweet potatoes and pulled the crust out of the fridge, patting it into the pie pan.

“Not pouting,” Fallon insisted, but her lower lip poked out in spite of herself.

“Stop. If you’re good I’ll let you make the next one.”

“The next one?”

“Yeah, the recipe makes enough filling for two. That explains why yours caught on fire, it was overfilled.” Kirby looked at her, bemused. “Kind of impressive, really. You can read all sorts of mind-numbing press releases and white papers, but you can’t handle a recipe.”

“We all have our special talents,” Fallon relented, without a trace of animosity. “Why don’t you finish the pie. I’ll just make us a drink.”

“That actually sounds perfect,” Kirby agreed. “Moscow Mule?”

“Sure, be right back.” She trotted off to the bar in the living room, and Kirby could hear the faint clinking of ice cubes as she set about making the drinks. 

In Fallon’s absence, Kirby carefully filled the pie shell, sliding the pan into the oven and setting the remaining filling back in the fridge to chill. It was kind of nice, she thought, to finally be able to show Fallon up on something. Sometimes it almost felt like she owed Fallon for everything she’d done for her; like somehow she was indebted to her for her happiness. Even if it might not be exactly true, it was a welcome difference to feel like Fallon needed her for once. 

Before she could think on it too much more, Fallon returned with her Moscow Mule in a frosted copper mug, her typical Southside clenched in her other hand. 

“Thank you,” Kirby said, carefully heaving the drink into her hand. “The pie is just in the oven, we can sit for a minute.”

Rather than sit in one of the chairs that lined the breakfast nook, Fallon hoisted herself directly onto the counter opposite them. Kirby followed suit, boosting herself onto the counter across from her and sipping her drink.

“This is really good,” she commented, twirling her cocktail straw. “What did you do to it?”

Fallon swallowed her sip of her Southside and wiped her lips before answering. “Spicy ginger beer,” she answered. “Otherwise it’s too sweet. That’s my secret.”

Kirby nodded, somewhat lamely taking another sip as she tried to think of what else to say. This had been happening a lot, lately; this weird kind of tension rising between her and Fallon, making their conversations as stilted and awkward as though they were strangers to one another, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth. She suspected Fallon felt it, too, but neither of them had any idea where it had come from or how to fix it. They just sat, quiet, until one of them broke the silence. It was excruciating. 

Mercifully, Fallon finally spoke, not waiting quite as long as she usually did. 

“Have you heard from your dad?”

Kirby sputtered, accidentally inhaling spicy ginger beer and starting to cough. She would rather Fallon had stayed quiet all day than to bring _that_ up.

“No,” she wheezed, setting her mug down on the counter beside her. “You heard from Steven?”

Fallon looked down into her drink and shook her head. “I invited them for Thanksgiving but I never heard anything.”

“...You did?”

“Yeah? I mean, I miss my brother. And I didn’t want you to have to spend Thanksgiving without your family.”

“You have Adam,” Kirby remarked dryly, taking another sip of her drink.

“ _He_ doesn’t count.”

“Besides,” Kirby continued, ignoring Fallon’s sour expression as she continued to glower at the mention of Adam, “I might miss my dad, but it’s not like I’m completely alone. I have plenty to be thankful for.”

Fallon looked at her expectantly. “Like what?”

Kirby raised her glass, ignoring the sudden swarm of butterflies that had taken unexpected residence in the pit of her stomach. Sitting here, in this warm kitchen, the homey scent of the baking pie perfuming the air, she suddenly had the courage to say exactly what she wanted to say. “Like you.”

Fallon blushed, a genuinely pleased smile spreading across her face. She raised her own glass to clink against Kirby’s. “I’m thankful for you, too.”

The girls each took a pull from their glasses, and when they settled back into silence, it wasn’t at all uncomfortable. It was true, Kirby thought - she _was_ grateful for Fallon. Even if she didn’t quite understand the depth of what that meant yet, it felt good that she’d let the girl know, and it felt even better to have it reciprocated. It really didn’t matter that her dad wasn’t here. He’d return in time, and Fallon was perfect company until then. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to Sarah for beta reading :)


End file.
